


Northern Downpour

by songs_of_the_moon



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Ghost/Haunting, Humor, M/M, Mood Whiplash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songs_of_the_moon/pseuds/songs_of_the_moon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after returning to Bag End, Bilbo finds himself on the brink of madness—or so he believes. Thorin has other ideas.</p><p>  <em>In which Bilbo isn't going crazy. Really, he's not; he only thinks he is.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It started on a Thursday

It started on a Thursday. To be more accurate, it started on a Wednesday night, but Bilbo wasn’t aware of anything odd until the following morning. So as far as he was concerned, it had started on a Thursday.

He had gone to bed the night before, everything as normal as you please. Lulled by the sound of crickets, he had easily drifted off to sleep, only to find himself in his sitting room, cozy in his favorite armchair with a glass of wine on the table beside him and a book in his lap.

Thorin Oakenshield was sitting in the second-best armchair on the other side of the fireplace wearing nothing but a smile. And for some reason, that didn’t seem strange at all. “Hello,” Thorin greeted warmly, laughter dancing in his eyes.

It should have been unusual, to see him so cheerful, but it seemed as natural as his nakedness.

“You have been well, I hope,” Thorin continued in the same affectionate tone. “You have fleshed out a bit since last I saw you.” It was true—in the year since his return home, Bilbo had begun to put back on the weight he’d lost during his travels. His ribs no longer stood out quite so prominently, his collarbone no longer quite so sharp. As glad as he was to be home, his appetite hadn’t truly returned until quite recently. 

“The Shire suits me well,” Bilbo heard himself responding, “but at times it begins to grow dull.” _You’re dead,_ he tried to say, but what came out instead was, “I have taken to collecting Elvish literature to abate my boredom.”

Thorin wrinkled his nose at the mention of his long-time enemies and really it had no business being as cute as it was. “Perhaps Dwarven tomes might interest you more?” he suggested hopefully.

Bilbo laughed without his own permission. “Perhaps, if passing traders ever had any. Your people are not known for their openness in regards to, well, much of anything.”

“True, true,” Thorin conceded. He shifted in his chair, and Bilbo kept his eyes carefully on his face.

They talked like old friends too long separated, telling one another of what had happened since they had last been together. Thorin offered no details past “I have been well”, and Bilbo found he couldn’t press for more, much as he wanted to. 

The night passed with the comfortable hum of conversation, punctuated occasionally by Thorin’s deep chuckle or Bilbo’s easy laughter. Dawn began to break, sending thin gray beams skittishly across the floor. Thorin smiled ruefully at the weak light. “I’m afraid,” he said as he stood, “that I have to leave.” He approached Bilbo and knelt before him. “I promise I’ll return.” He took Bilbo’s hand to brush his lips gently across the knuckles.

Bilbo suddenly found that he could speak as he wished. “What,” he began uncertainly, “why did you—”

And then he woke up.

He was in his sitting room on a Thursday morning, wearing his nightclothes, with the beginnings of dawn clearly visible through the window. The fire in the hearth appeared to have gone out only recently. There was an empty wineglass and a book of Elvish poetry on the table beside him. A ghost of warmth lingered on the back of his hand.

“What a bizarre dream,” he mused aloud. Still, it had been a pleasant one. He’d missed Thorin so much it was almost a physical ache, and to see him, even if only in a dream, had soothed the hollowness in his chest. 

He stood, brushing wrinkles from his nightshirt. _I should dress,_ he decided as he returned to his bedroom. He frowned when he saw that the bed looked to have been barely slept in, free of the whorls and rumples usually left behind by his tossing and turning. _Did I spend all night in the armchair?_ Normally sleeping in a chair left his back complaining—he’d fallen asleep in his study often enough to know—but he only felt the vague soreness of rump that was the result of sitting for too long.

With an unsettled sigh, Bilbo turned to his wardrobe and began rifling through it.

“The green would bring out your eyes,” a voice that sounded much too much like Thorin’s opined.

Bilbo spun, heart in his throat, cursing that he’d let someone sneak up on him and wishing he had Sting on hand.

There was no one else in the room. Bilbo carefully checked every possible hiding space, no matter how unlikely, and reached the impossible conclusion that he was alone.

“No need to be so jumpy,” the Thorin-voice chided. Bilbo’s head snapped up, ears straining to determine the direction it was coming from. “It’s just me, after all.” The voice didn’t seem to be coming from anywhere in particular, Bilbo noticed with growing unease.

 _Am I…hallucinating?_ The thought turned Bilbo’s stomach. Tooks were prone to madness, after all, particularly after an adventure. He had shown none of the symptoms of it—save one. Recurring nightmares. He swallowed back the rising bile. _If I ignore it, it will go away,_ he reassured himself hopelessly. 

“Is something wrong? I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The voice—Bilbo refused to think of it as Thorin’s—sounded sincere, but Bilbo wouldn’t allow himself to be sweet-talked into responding.

 _Go away,_ he silently pleaded. He dared not say it aloud; doing so would give the voice more credence than it deserved. _Go away go away go away go away—_

“Bilbo?” The voice had grown quiet, soft with worry. “I—”

“ _Go away!_ ” Bilbo howled, clutching desperately at his temples. “Please, just leave me alone,” he whimpered, dropping slowly to his knees. 

“I’m sorry.” The voice was thick with an emotion Bilbo couldn’t identify. “I’ll give you a moment to collect yourself. But Bilbo, you have to believe me when I say that I will never abandon you again. Not even the rise of Mordor could tear me from your side.” The conviction in the voice ( _Thorin’s voice,_ some treacherous part of his mind whispered) was so familiar, so painfully familiar that for a blinding second it was all he could do to breathe through the tightness in his chest.

For several long minutes there was silence, broken only by Bilbo’s ragged breathing. Finally, he stood on shaky legs, determined to put the morning’s incident behind him. He told himself that the reason he dressed in blue was to match the flowers under his windowsill.

He tried not to think of Thorin (and the beautiful, horrible voice that had been so welcome to his lonely, grieving heart) as he went about his morning.

He failed.


	2. Afternoon Stroll

The voice returned at noon.

Bilbo tensed at the murmured greeting, though he gave no other indication that he’d heard. _I refuse to speak to a figment of my imagination._

The rustle of pages turning was, for several long moments, the only sound. The flowing Elven script danced in Bilbo’s eyes, forming no coherent connections. Each word made sense, but they refused to be strung together into sentences.

“What are you reading?” The voice broke Bilbo’s tenuous concentration. “From the format, I would guess a poem of some kind?” it suggested.

It was a ballad, telling the tale of an Elven maiden with a voice so fair it could bring the very earth itself to tears. One evening, a fisherman became entranced by it. Unable to locate its source, the Man went mad with longing and threw himself into the sea. The Elf, ignorant of what she had wrought, sang of love as the Man drowned.

“How do you make any sense of this?” the voice wondered. “It is naught but scribbling.”

“Elvish writing is elegant, unlike clumsy Dwarvish runes,” Bilbo snapped back churlishly. His eyes widened when he realized what he had done, a litany of curses running through his head.

The voice responded with an indignant sniff, followed by, “I should take offense at that, but words said in anger are of little consequence compared to the kind-heartedness that I know to be your true nature.”

Bilbo frowned, debating the wisdom of continuing to respond.

“And…” the voice began hesitantly ( _It’s strange to hear Thorin uncertain,_ Bilbo thought before he could stop himself.), “what have I done to anger you?”

“Oh, nothing of consequence, simply _existed,_ ” Bilbo snarled. _Arguing with a hallucination isn’t normal._

_Neither is hallucinating._

“I was unaware that my presence caused you such distress.” The voice seemed disappointed. “Has it always been this way, or is this a more recent slight? I wish to know in what way I have wronged you, so that I may remedy it.” The voice had taken on an almost pleading tone.

“You wronged me,” Bilbo hissed, “when you _died!_ ”

There was a heavy silence, broken at last with a soft, “Oh.” 

Bilbo scowled at the papers strewn across his desk, a myriad assortment of shopping lists, translation notes, and scraps of his own writing. _I should clean it,_ he thought, trying very hard to pretend he hadn’t heard surprise in that quiet exclamation.

“I had not realized that my passing had affected you so strongly,” the voice spoke calmly, with something Bilbo didn’t care to identify straining at the edges of the tranquility.

“Hadn’t re—How did you expect me to have responded? You were my friend, Thorin, a very dear one. Of course your death caused me distress. What sort of heartless creature would I have to be to have remained unmoved?” Bilbo realized with an uneasy jolt that he’d called the voice by Thorin’s name.

“I see,” the voice said slowly. “A very dear friend, was I? And what am I now?”

“ _Dead,_ ” Bilbo spat.

A sigh, heavy with resignation, sounded in the small study. “Yes, yes I am.”

***

Bag End was stifling. The normally cozy halls and pantries and kitchens felt like they had shrunk, like they were closing in on themselves. Bilbo was suffocating.

 _I need to be outside,_ Bilbo decided, abandoning his writing in favor of his walking stick.

The chill of the air was a shock as he stepped out. He inhaled deeply, the cold burning in his lungs. The sky above him looked endless.

“Your home is beautiful,” the voice spoke up, the first thing it had said since the spat in the study. “I noticed it when first I came here, but never thought to tell you so.”

“Yes, the Shire is lovely,” Bilbo agreed, unsure of why he was trying to reconcile with a voice in his head.

He walked with no destination in mind, feet carrying him along his favorite forest paths. “It will soon be too cold for mushrooms,” he mused aloud, unsure if he was speaking to himself or the voice ( _Thorin,_ his mind whispered) and not truly caring. A familiar shape caught his eye, and he knelt beside a fallen branch, smiling at the serendipity. “Man’s ear,” he explained as he gathered the small brown mushrooms, “are named for their shape. They’re one of the last kinds to go dormant in the winter.”

“Those do not grow in the mountains,” the voice noted. “Are they safe to eat?”

“Of course they are; I wouldn’t be picking them otherwise.” Despite his automatic answer, the question brought an impossible idea to Bilbo’s mind: Was it possible that the mushrooms he’d picked the day before for his supper had been goldengills rather than yellowcaps? That would explain the hallucinations and the strange dream, if it were so.

He knew it couldn’t be the case—his mother had taught him better than that. Still, he clung to the possibility, no matter how slim. _The voice will be gone by tomorrow,_ he reassured himself. The promise rang hollow.

The ground was cold and hard under his knees, but Bilbo sat back on his heels anyway, far more comfortable than he had been inside. He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the forest drift around him.

“How odd.” The voice broke Bilbo’s reverie, unwelcome in its suddenness and welcome in its familiarity. “When I look away from you, it takes a moment to find you again. My eyes are reluctant to focus on you, as if the forest itself is hiding you.”

“That is odd,” Bilbo agreed absently, unsure of how to respond.

“Perhaps we should go back inside,” the voice suggested. “You’re beginning to shiver.”

It was true; Bilbo had forgone his heavier coat, not intending to stay out for long.

“Maybe we should, then.” He stood, brushing dirt from his trousers. The mushrooms were a comfortable weight in his pocket, both an addition to his supper and a suggestion of sanity.

They were as good as he had expected them to be, made even better by the fact that he had company for supper for the first time in longer than he’d care to think about, if a mushroom-induced hallucination could count as company.

When he finally drifted toward his bed—stalled by the worry of what his dreams would hold—it was far later than he would have liked. The siren song of sleep was stronger than his apprehension, however, and once he had made up his mind to retire he was soon in his nightclothes, completing his nightly routine.

The last thing he heard before he surrendered to his dreams was a softly murmured “Good night”. 

Then he found himself in the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Bilbo seems out of character in the beginning, look at it this way: He is convinced he's going mad, and that the madness is presenting itself in the incredibly painful form of his dead friend's voice. That's a lot of stress to be under.


	3. Family History

“Good morning,” Thorin greeted cheerfully. “We were so caught up in our conversation last night that you had but little time for sleep, so I left you to your rest tonight.” He was wearing one of Bilbo’s aprons and nothing else. It was an improvement from the night before, but only just.

“Thank you, that was very thoughtful.” Bilbo smiled up at him, expression changing without his consent. “Are you making something?” He motioned toward the whisk in Thorin’s hand.

“I’m going to make you a proper breakfast,” Thorin announced, pointing at Bilbo with the whisk. “A proper Dwarven breakfast.”

Bilbo laughed. “Being cooked for by a king.” He shook his head, still grinning. “I fear that if word of this ever gets out it will do irreparable harm to both our reputations.”

Thorin’s deep laughter joined Bilbo’s. “Aye, that seems likely.” He set to bustling about the kitchen, occasionally asking where to find a particular ingredient or tool. Bilbo watched him, mouth smiling of its own accord, unable to speak or control his body.

One impressively large mess later, Thorin set a plate piled high with food—very little of which Bilbo recognized—on the table.

“It smells amazing,” Bilbo gushed, reaching for a fork. He paused a moment, closed his eyes, and savored the aroma rising from the meal.

“The sun is rising,” Thorin noted, watching the dawn pensively through the window. “I must leave now, but I will return.” He brushed a kiss to Bilbo’s cheek and smiled.

Bilbo woke up in the kitchen.

A plate of food, still steaming, was on the table before him. He stared at it in a daze. Slowly, he began to eat. The food was rich and delicious, but foreign. He could never, Bilbo knew, have made this himself.

“How do you find the meal?” There was sincerity in the voice, tinged with nervousness.

“Wonderful,” Bilbo said simply. He set down the fork and stared at his empty plate. His breathing picked up, becoming ragged and shallow.

_The voice was supposed to be gone by now._

His vision began to blur at the edges.

_I could not have made this meal._

The only sound was his uneven, too-rapid breathing.

_The voice was supposed to be gone by now!_

“Bilbo? Are you alright?”

The room seemed to spin around him before it suddenly, mercifully, faded to black.

***

“You gave me quite a fright, you did,” Hamfast Gamgee said the moment Bilbo opened his eyes. “Glad to see you’re awake, Mister Baggins.” He hovered, tucking Bilbo in, checking his forehead for fever, seemingly unable to be still.

“What,” Bilbo cleared his throat, “what happened?”

“Well, Sir, I don’t rightly know all the details. What I do know is, I was working in the flowerbed under the kitchen window when I hear an almighty thump. I look in and see you on the floor. So I hurry in to see to you, make sure you haven’t split your head.” He leaned over Bilbo to fluff his pillow, and it occurred to Bilbo that he was in bed in his own room. “After I made sure you weren’t bleeding to death, I brought you in here.”

“Thank you, that was very kind of you.” Bilbo sat up slowly. His head ached a bit, and he was sure there was a bruise hidden somewhere under his hair.

“If you’ll be needing anything, Sir, just ring that,” Hamfast pointed to a brass bell on the table, which he had to have put there himself, “and I’ll come a-running.”

“That won’t be necessary; I can manage on my own,” Bilbo assured him. “But your kindness is appreciated.”

Hamfast looked skeptical but held his tongue. It took another promise of his master’s self-sufficiency for him to finally leave, the garden crying out for his attention.

Silence reigned for several minutes, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock. It was eventually ended by a softly queried, “Are you hurt in any way? Your impact with the floor was not a gentle one.”

“I’m fine,” Bilbo answered, quiet with the knowledge that Hamfast would not have yet gone far. “You should…you should be gone by now.”

“What?” The voice sounded confused, and Bilbo easily pictured Thorin’s puzzled frown. He felt like he was going to be sick.

“And, and the dream. The food. None of it makes _sense._ ” Bilbo drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “Nothing makes sense anymore.”

“Bilbo,” the voice ( _Thorin_ ) murmured, “what troubles you so? I expected my return to come as a shock, but you seem more distressed than surprised.”

“Distressed?” Bilbo choked out a weak laugh. “I suppose you could call me that. I would have chosen something different—crazy, perhaps, or mad. Unstable. Unhinged.” 

“You believe that you are insane?” The question sounded concerned, with a hint of something almost like incredulity peeking in at the edges. “I have met the insane, Bilbo, and I can assure you that you are not one of them.”

“Then what other explanation is there?” Bilbo demanded. “Sane Hobbits do not wake up somewhere other than where they had fallen asleep, or find Dwarvish dishes on their kitchen table. They do not hallucinate the voice of a dead friend.”

“Hallucinate? Bilbo, I am no hallucination.” The voice ( _Thorin_ ) had taken on a pleading tone, as though willing Bilbo to accept, to understand. “I am forbidden to explain the circumstances of my return, but return I have. Though I may be naught but a voice heard only by you, that shall change in time.”

“Oh, Yavanna,” Bilbo whispered. “I really have gone mad.” He buried his face in his hands, wishing the whole situation would just go away.

“Is there anything I could tell you that would convince you of the truth?” the voice ( _Thorin_ ) asked softly, a hint of desperation seeping into its ( _his_ ) tone.

“No.” Bilbo barely managed to speak through the tightness of his chest. “No, there isn’t.”

“I wish,” Thorin—Bilbo had given up on calling the voice anything but—began, “I wish that this had happened differently.” He sighed heavily. “But wishing does naught to change the past. I can only hope that you will come around. In the meantime, I will remain by your side. I turned away from you once; I will not do it again.”

“Tooks are known for their adventuresome natures,” Bilbo said slowly, “as well as their tendency to fall into madness. The latter,” he took a steadying breath, “is often caused by the former.”

“And what is a Took?” Thorin took the bait, implicitly agreeing to change the subject.

“The Tooks are a Hobbit family.” Bilbo sat up, straightening his shoulders. “My mother was a Took. I take after her, in many ways.” He stood. The wooden floor was familiar and cool under his feet, grounding him to the present situation, with all its unpleasant implications.

“You fear you have inherited her family’s tendency for madness.” There was no question in the tone, only understanding. “I cannot tell you if that is the case, but I am no symptom of it.”

Bilbo laughed bitterly. “If only I could believe you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hamfast finally makes his appearance!


	4. Lull

“Are you sure you should be up and about in your condition, Sir?” Hamfast wrung his hands, watching worriedly as Bilbo straightened up his study.

“I’m quite well, Hamfast. And I’m not in any sort of ‘condition’.” Bilbo pushed one last book in place and smiled at his handiwork.

“But what if you collapse again, Sir, and—”

“Hamfast.” Bilbo’s tone brooked no further discussion. “I do not need you to worry over me.” His voice softened, and he looked to Hamfast with a gentle expression. “I’m touched that you’re so concerned about me, but I don’t require constant supervision.” He clapped his hand on the gardener’s shoulder. “You have gone above and beyond the call of duty, and for that I can’t thank you enough, but I require some time to myself, and surely there are other gardens that need your attention?”

Some of the tension drained from Hamfast’s figure, and he allowed himself a small smile. “That there are. I’ll be seeing you, then, Mister Bilbo.” He nodded politely and left, leaving Bilbo alone for the first time since that morning.

Bilbo collapsed into his chair with a relieved sigh. Hamfast’s constant presence had been stressful, as well meaning as it was.

“He is very loyal to you,” Thorin observed approvingly.

“His family has been tending the gardens of Bag Shot Row for generations; it has nothing to do with me,” Bilbo disagreed, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“A servant’s loyalty says much about the master,” Thorin pressed. “He seems genuinely concerned for you.”

“He’s a kind-hearted soul. I remember one summer, when I was a child and he was but a lad learning his father’s trade, he kept disappearing at odd hours. I followed him out to the garden shed and found a cat and litter of kittens that he’d been taking care of.” Bilbo laughed at the memory. “But that very kind-heartedness often leads him to worry more than he ought.” He shook his head, smiling fondly.

“It has been twice now, that I have made you faint,” Thorin noted with laughter in his voice. “I must apologize for causing such undue stress.” The amusement in his tone overshadowed any traces of contrition.

“I fear you may be bad for my health,” Bilbo accused with a chuckle. The gnawing worry that he was going mad was still present, but he resolutely shoved it to the back of his mind. After all, what could he really do about it? He might as well enjoy ‘Thorin’s’ company while he was still able—it might not be long before the mostly-harmless hallucinations devolved into raving insanity.

***

Bilbo frowned at the clock on the mantle. Thorin had been silent for several hours, leaving the Hobbit alone with his books and papers. It was…troubling. It shouldn’t have been, of course; less than twenty-four hours ago he would have given up Bag End to make him go away. And yet there it was, the niggling thought that he had said or done something that had put off the Dwarven King. It was a familiar worry, easily recognized from an adventure that had been spent in large part on eggshells, tip-toeing around the short-tempered leader of the Company.

 _I really have gone mad,_ Bilbo mused resignedly. _First I hallucinate Thorin’s voice, and now I miss it when it’s gone?_ He sighed and shook his head.

“You seem preoccupied. Has something happened while I was away?”

Bilbo jumped, the papers in his lap spilling onto the floor. “Thorin! You’re here.” He was much more relieved by that than he probably should have been, he noted.

“Of course I am. Have I not said that I will never again abandon you? I was pulled away earlier—I had some business to attend to—but I have returned,” Thorin soothed.

Papers forgotten, Bilbo sat back more comfortably in his chair. “What business?”

“There were some arrangements that had to be made for tomorrow. I was summoned quite suddenly; I would have given you warning of my departure, had I had any myself.” Thorin sighed—a bit irritably, Bilbo thought. “I am afraid I am unable to provide you with more details, but rest assured that tomorrow some of it will become more clear.”

Bilbo briefly considered enquiring further about Thorin’s ‘business’, such as what the arrangements were and who he made them with, but he would probably receive only vague mumbling in response, so instead he asked, “Why are you here?” The question had been weighing on his mind, despite the lingering suspicion that he was imagining the whole thing.

“What do you mean?” The tone of Thorin’s voice was achingly familiar, and Bilbo easily pictured his furrowed brow.

“You’re dead, Thorin,” Bilbo stated bluntly. “So what are you doing in the Shire, making me breakfast and commenting on my wardrobe?”

“I am dead,” Thorin agreed, voice heavy, “but I have been granted a second chance by my Maker. I cannot explain further. In truth, I probably should not have said what I have, little as it is.” He sighed. “If I could, I would hold you, and stroke your hair, and tell you that everything is going to be alright, but for now all I can do is promise that soon our circumstances will change.” He sounded weary but hopeful.

Bilbo shuddered, a feeling like a cool wind passing over him. The thought of Thorin’s embrace (and the memory of it, rough and grateful on the Carrock) was welcome, a warm glow in the center of his chest that Bilbo dared not examine too closely for fear of discovering what it was.

“Bilbo?” The hesitancy in Thorin’s voice was unfamiliar. It made him sound young. The Hobbit smiled faintly.

“Yes?”

“If…if you wish for me to go, I will. All you have to do is say so, and I will leave and never bother you again.” Thorin’s voice had regained its conviction, but it was laced with resignation.

Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat. The offer was so tempting, a gleaming hint of dawn on the dark horizon, but he knew immediately that he could never take it. He had lost Thorin once. He had no intention of doing it again, madness-induced hallucination or not.

“I wouldn’t—” Bilbo’s voice broke and he paused. “I wouldn’t want to make a liar out of you. Didn’t you promise to never again leave me?” Bilbo smiled, though he knew the expression was strained. “I intend to hold you to that.”

Thorin’s response was startled laughter. “Thank you, Bilbo. I…” He trailed off, as if unsure of how to continue. “Thank you.”

Bilbo’s smile was genuine this time around, soft and warm. He could only hope he didn’t come to regret his decision.


	5. History Lesson

Bilbo sat back and stretched. His back ached from leaning over his desk for hours on end, but the discomfort was worth the result: he had begun recording his travels with Thorin and his Company, tentatively titled _An Unforeseen Adventure_ , and found that the more he wrote, the more he remembered. He had finally been halted in his endeavor by a cramp in his hand and Thorin’s chuckling.

“And just what do you find so amusing, hm?” Bilbo rubbed absently at his sore hand, head cocked to the side as he waited for a response.

“Your expression is quite fierce while you write―fiercer than I recall it being during battle.” The amusement in Thorin’s tone was evident.

“I see,” Bilbo said with a huff of laughter. Looking over his progress, he decided that he had written more than enough for one day and made a more than adequate start.

A sudden banging at the door startled Bilbo out of his comfortable silence. Only one person was that rude: “ _Lobelia_.” Bilbo hissed the name.

“What? Is that some sort of Hobbit oath that I’m unfamiliar with?” Thorin queried with puzzlement in his tone.

Bilbo was startled into laughing. “As good as—she’s my cousin-in-law.” He stood and tried to brush the wrinkles from his trousers, though all he accomplished was smearing ink on them. “It would be rude to ignore her, wouldn’t it?” With a resigned sigh, he made his way to the front door, footsteps a silent counterpart to Lobelia’s continued knocking.

“It’s rude to make a caller wait,” Lobelia announced as soon as Bilbo opened the door, bustling past him.

“Why don’t you come inside?” Bilbo muttered under his breath. Thorin chuckled.

They went through the motions of tea, though both knew that neither Bilbo’s generosity nor Lobelia’s gratitude were genuine. They had moved on to biscuits by the time Lobelia deemed it proper to bring up her reason for visiting.

“What’s this I hear about you fainting at breakfast?” It was an abrupt change of topic from Bilbo’s recipe for teacakes.

“Word travels fast in the Shire,” Thorin noted. Bilbo had to stop himself from laughing at the understatement.

“I felt a bit ill this morning, that’s all.” Bilbo tried to brush the incident off as inconsequential.

“Have you been feeling ill a lot lately? You’ve barely left Bag End in months, after all.” Lobelia’s attempt to disguise her nosiness as concern failed miserably. “Why, you’ve been as good as a hermit ever since you returned from that awful _adventure_.” She said the word as though it were some fell disease.

Bilbo jumped at the opportunity. “Would you like to hear about it? My adventure, that is.” Lobelia began to look uncomfortable. “It was really quite wonderful. Walking for days, sleeping on the ground, rationing our food. Really, it was quite exciting. Have I told you about the trolls?”

“I’m afraid you haven’t, but—”

“The whole incident was quite remarkable. Terrifying while it was happening, of course, but it certainly makes for a good story now.” Bilbo grinned at Lobelia’s obvious discomfort.

“Yes, I’m sure it does, but perhaps not now—”

“You would prefer to hear a different story? I suppose trolls might be a little much for a lady of your delicate sensibilities. Oh! How about—”

“Good- _bye_ , cousin!” Lobelia stood abruptly. “It was… _wonderful_ ,” she forced herself to say the word, “to see you again.” And then as suddenly as she’d come, she was gone, taking with her only the spoon she’d used to stir her tea.

Bilbo sat back and laughed. “The poor dear probably thinks I’m dying,” he chortled.

“Why would she possibly think that? You look quite healthy to me.” Thorin sounded concerned.

“I’m as fit as a fiddle,” Bilbo confirmed, “but most Hobbits are quite a bit more sociable than I’ve been of late, and only decline invitations to go visiting when they’re seriously ill. Between that and the fainting spell, I’m sure she’s convinced that she and Otho will have Bag End before the year’s out, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding.” 

“She has designs on your home?” Thorin seemed personally affronted by the thought.

Bilbo nodded. “She and Otho—my cousin, her husband—had claimed it while I was away. I was declared dead a year after I’d disappeared, and Otho, as my closest living relative, inherited Bag End. They were auctioning off my belongings when I returned.”

Thorin huffed imperiously. “No Dwarf would ever treat family in such a manner,” he announced.

“What are Dwarven families like?” It was not a smooth change of topic by any means, but Bilbo was disquieted by how personally Thorin seemed to take Lobelia’s desire for Bag End, though he knew not why he felt that way.

“Loud, in large part.” Thorin seemed relieved by the change in subject, if his tone was anything to go by. “Immediate families are usually small, with only a few children, but the extended family plays a large role in the day to day activities. My sister, Dís, is Fili and Kili’s mother. Raising them without the support of her family was very difficult for her. I did what I could, but there was never any hope that I could replace the dozens of relatives that should have been with her.” Thorin’s voice had grown pensive, and Bilbo regretted bringing it up.

The rest of the afternoon passed slowly, bogged down by the melancholy of Thorin’s reminiscence.

***

Bilbo did not relish the chore of drawing a bath, but the promise of an evening soak kept him motivated. The water, once he had finished, was perhaps a bit too hot, but it would cool soon enough.

He was halfway through unbuttoning his shirt when it occurred to him to ask, “Are you watching me undress?”

Thorin laughed, and Bilbo was relieved. The Dwarf had been withdrawn since talking about his sister, making his mirth even more welcome than normal. “Would you like me to?” he asked playfully.

Bilbo pulled his shirt closed and turned crimson, sputtering about propriety and boundaries and _the nerve of some Dwarves_!

“You bathed with the Company with only token protest during our travels; why this sudden modesty?” Thorin seemed genuinely confused.

“I did not bathe _with_ the Company,” Bilbo corrected, “I bathed _near_ the Company. And only then because chances to be clean were so few and far between that I had to take any that were offered.”

“Hm.” Thorin sounded unconvinced, but he didn’t press the issue any further. “I promise to turn my back.” There was laughter in his voice, but no insincerity, so Bilbo took him at his word.

“Thank you,” the Hobbit replied, more graciously than he felt was truly deserved.

The water was lukewarm by the time either of them spoke again.

“Earlier,” Bilbo said slowly, “you mentioned your ‘Maker’, and it reminded me that I know very little of Dwarvish lore.” He let his head fall forward, wet bangs plastered to his face. “I would like to learn, if you are willing to teach me.”

“I can tell you only very little.”

“Then tell me what you can. I am a hound, begging any scrap from the table of knowledge.” The metaphor was over-dramatic, Bilbo was willing to admit, but it seemed to have the desired effect, as Thorin huffed a laugh.

“Very well. I will tell you that which I am allowed. You have made note of it before, Bilbo, that Dwarves are not over-prone to openness. It is forbidden to repeat much of our lore to outsiders.” Thorin was silent for a moment before, with a sigh, he once again began to speak. “You mentioned my Maker, so I will begin there. He crafted the Dwarves alone, outside of the First Music. He made us to be hardy, and to have a great love for that which we make with our own hands. In our tongue he is called Mahal.”

“And in mine?” Bilbo asked softly.

“Aulë.”

Bilbo sank a bit farther into the water, letting it lap against his neck. “I see. Is there more?”

“Yes, but I can think of nothing else that you can know. If I remember something more, I will tell you.” Thorin sounded almost disappointed, though why Bilbo had no idea.

“It’s only fair that I tell you a bit of Hobbit-lore in return, wouldn’t you say?” Bilbo lifted his head and smiled. He only wished he knew where to direct it.

Thorin laughed softly. “Yes, that does sound fair.”

“Since you told me of your Maker, I will tell you of mine,” Bilbo decided. “It is said that when Yavanna saw what her husband had made, she was filled with the desire to make something of her own. And so she did. Her creations were small, to be close to the earth that was to nourish them, and held very dear those things of her own realm, the trees and flowers and other growing things. When Ilúvatar confronted her over what she had wrought, he gave her the same order he had given Aulë: Her creations were to make their home on Arda, but they would not usurp the title of ‘first’ from Ilúvatar’s children. They would not take their place until after the coming of Elves and Men. And now,” Bilbo laughed, “here we are.”

“Here we are, indeed.”

***

Bilbo’s sleep that night was dreamless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what happened to me--I just...stopped writing. But! I am back!


End file.
